Free AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller by Jake Bible

Sergeant,” Worm says. “But the preparation procedure is automated and outside my control. I will send a report to maintenance to schedule recalibration of the arms.”
    “Doesn’t help me now, though, does- FUCK!”
    “They a little pinchy today?” Blaze asks as he walks into the prep cube next to Milo’s.
    “Not for me,” Milo says. “Hoagie just can’t stand still.”
    “I do stand still, asshole,” Hoagie snaps. “They still fucking pinch me!”
    “Maybe they don’t like you, Hoag,” Paulo smiles as his arms and legs are encased in flexible, form fitting body armor. He winces a little as the armor is sealed. “Or maybe they do need calibration.”
    “See,” Hoagie says. “Standing still doesn’t fucking matter.”
    “Report has been sent and I offer my apologies, operators,” Worm says.
    Blaze holds out his arms and spreads his legs as the dozens of small robotic arms start to go to work. A thin sheen of silicon is sprayed over his uniform then pieces of heavy duty plastic are pressed around his joints. He flexes his knees and elbows then nods and the arms continue. Piece after piece of body armor is carefully applied and sealed in place. The cube flashes with a brilliant light as the armor is statically charged.
    “Thank you,” Blaze says, stepping away from the cube.
    He joins his squad mates as they file from the prep room and into the armory next door. A helmet, a large pack, and a short, black baton waits for each operator at various stations in the stark room. Blaze holds out his wrist to one of the stations and the StatShield encompassing the equipment blinks out. He picks up the helmet and places it on his head, waiting for the semi-claustrophobic feeling as it molds perfectly to the contours of his skull.
    “Face plate,” he says and there is a shimmer of light across the opening of the helmet. “Tactical test run.” Maps, data streams, targeting protocols, all flash before Blaze’s eyes. “IRIS integration. Targeting.” The targeting protocol moves from in front of his face to the direct vision in his left eye. “Clear. Navigation.” The targeting is replaced by the three dimensional grid of the terrain surrounding Caldicott City.” “Clear. Data.” His personal vital signs, the POV’s and vital signs of his squad mates, the current temperature and weather forecast for the Sicklands, as well as the energy level of the baton he holds, stream across his vision. “Clear.”
    Blaze grips the baton and gives it a hard s nap to the left and down. It begins to expand and mold around his hand, extending two feet out in front and one foot back, going from a thin cylinder to a heavy duty rifle. Blaze puts the butt of the rifle up against his shoulder and turns to the far wall.
    The rest of the squad matches his movements and all fire as part of the wall slides away to reveal a thick patch of rubber. The rubber absorbs the bright blue static charges that fly at it. Satisfied with the results, they snap their hands down and to the right and their rifles shrink into  large pistols. Again, as a squad, they raise the weapons, fire at the wall, and watch as the charges are absorbed. They snap their hands up and left then right and the pistols become larger versions of the original batons, but glow brightly.
    “Weapons systems are operating at optimal levels,” Worm states. “You have been cleared to proceed to the transport bay.”
    Zebra squad turns on its heels and the wall that had been behind them slides away to reveal the buzz of work in the transport bay. Chief Roark is standing there, her lips pressed into a thin grimace.
    “You guys just had to fuck up my day, huh?” she snaps as one by one they walk past her. She slaps a metal patch to each of their right shoulders. “You have Tranny Eighteen today. Treat the girl right and bring her back in one piece, will ya?”
    “We’ll do our best,” Milo smiles. “You seen LT?”
    “I have seen lots of LTs,” Chief Roark says.